“Okay,” Hartman said. He squeezed past Doyle to the bow of the boat. He took hold of the anchor chain with both hands and pulled. Nothing happened. He stopped trying after a moment, breathing hard. “Seems to be caught in something,” he said. He took a lower grip on the chain and tried pulling again. He looked back at Doyle. “I’m afraid I can’t budge it,” he said.
Doyle finished packing away the lines in the wicker hamper and closed the lid. “You come back here and I’ll take a whack at it,” he said.
The boat rocked slightly as Hartman made his way to the stern seat. Then Doyle worked his way forward and took hold of the anchor chain. As he began pulling at it, the cords stood out in his neck, the corduroy coat seemed to bulge at the shoulders. He didn’t yank at the chain. He just applied a steady, powerful pressure. Suddenly he staggered back slightly, the anchor free. In the distance there was the deep, ominous rumble of thunder.
Doyle climbed back into the seat at the oars, grinning. There was a curious tense look about the corners of Hartman’s mouth.
“I believe you said the murderer was a strong guy,” Doyle said, and laughed. He put out the oars and began rowing back toward the hotel. A jagged streak of lightning split the sky.
Hartman fumbled for a cigarette and lit it. He kept glancing over his shoulder at the approaching storm. Doyle rowed with long, even, powerful strokes. The sun was still bright where they were, but the storm was coming rapidly. At the far end of the lake they could see sheets of rain.
“Of course the murderer would be smarter than that,” Doyle said.
“Smarter than what?” Hartman’s voice sounded tense, a little frightened.
“To show his strength — since that’s what the police would be looking for.”
“Oh.”
“He might even pretend that he had no strength at all. Now, if I were the murderer I’d have done what you did.”
“What I did?”
“Demonstrated that I couldn’t do something — like lift an anchor.”
“I see.” Hartman took a deep drag on his cigarette. “That would be the clever thing.”
Doyle rowed for a moment in silence. Then he smiled disarmingly. “That anchor wasn’t stuck very tight,” he said. “I made it look tougher than it was.”
“Why?” Hartman asked, sharply.
“Just a gag, Hartman. The idea amuses me.”
“What idea?”
“That we’re both probably wondering a little bit about each other.”
Lightning struck across the sky again and a sudden gust of wind sent water chopping against the side of the boat.
Doyle was still smiling. “Do you ever wear tinted glasses, Hartman? Most blonds suffer from bright sunshine. Wrong pigmentation.”
“Look,” Hartman said, “I don’t think this gag of yours is very funny.”
“Sorry,” Doyle said. His smile faded. “I’m afraid we’re going to get good and soaked.”
Hartman felt a faint spatter of rain against his face. They were still a good five hundred yards from shore. A fork of lightning shot down into the water not far from them and the clap of thunder set the boat vibrating. Doyle kept on with his rowing as if nothing had happened. Hartman’s hands were gripping the sides of the boat, his knuckles white.
“Scared?” Doyle asked.
“Not really. But I don’t like thunder storms. Never did.”
“Must be a little bit like what happened to the Bradford murderer,” Doyle said. “A calm, sunny day — and then — the wrath of God!” He took a deep full stroke with the oars. “Why do you suppose he did it, Hartman? A beautiful woman — a charming little girl—”
“Some people can’t stand treachery,” Hartman said.
The oars remained suddenly poised over the water — water that seemed, to have begun to boil slightly. “Treachery?” Doyle said.
“That’s the way some men would look at a turn down,” Hartman said.
The oars dipped slowly again and Doyle continued his rowing. Lightning and thunder seemed suddenly to engulf them. The rain came — hard — almost painful in the sharpness of its drive. Doyle increased the rhythm of his rowing but he threw his head back, laughing.
“What’s the joke?” Hartman shouted at him.
“Your hair!” Doyle shouted back.
“What about my hair?”
Doyle’s laughter rang out over the noise of the storm. “I thought it was dyed. So help me, Hartman, I thought it was dyed. I thought the color would run when it got wet.”
Hartman lifted his hand to his soaking hair and brought it away again, staring at it as if he, too, expected something odd.
“Everybody always says that...” he explained.
And then Doyle nosed the boat into the sanctuary of the boathouse. They sat there, protected from the rain, wiping the water from their faces. Doyle took off his glasses and tried drying them with a damp handkerchief.
“Boy, that really came down!”
Hartman nodded.
“You said you didn’t drink, Hartman, but after that soaking maybe you should have something — for medicinal purposes. I’ve got a bottle of old brandy up in my room.”
“Really,” Hartman said, “I don’t think—”
“Do you good,” Doyle said. “You don’t want to get chilled.”
“Well—”
They walked up across the lawn to the hotel. There was no point in hurrying. They’d never be any wetter than they were now. They crossed the wide porch and went into the big main hall. The water ran off their clothes and made little puddles on the floor. The corner of Hartman’s mouth twitched.
“Suppose we each get a quick shower and rubdown before that drink,” he said.
Doyle nodded. “Perhaps that’s a good idea. But make it snappy. My room’s Number Eleven on the second floor.”
“See you,” Hartman said.
Hartman went to his room. He stripped off his clothes and dropped them on the bathroom floor. He got under the hot shower in the tub and stood there till he was thoroughly warmed. Then he got out and dried himself with a rough bath towel. He walked, naked, into his room and opened the middle bureau, drawer. He put on dry socks and underwear, a clean blue-flannel shirt. From the closet he got dry trousers and shoes and a worn tweed jacket. Then he stood in front of the mirror and brushed his light blond hair. His mouth twitched again as he looked at his reflection. After he put down his brush and comb he held out his hands in front of him. They were shaking.
Then Hartman pulled open one of the top bureau drawers and moved a pile of handkerchiefs. Under them was a small, thirty-two caliber revolver. He slipped it, along with a fresh package of cigarettes and matches, into the right-hand pocket of the tweed coat. Then he looked at his shaking hands once more and swore softly.
Hartman paused outside the door of Room Eleven and then knocked. He heard Doyle call out to him.
“Come on in!”
He opened the door and went in. He could hear water running in the bath tub.
“I got soaking wet here,” Doyle called out through the half-open bathroom door. “It felt so good. Be with you in a minute.”
“That’s okay,” Hartman said.
“The brandy’s on the bureau. Help, yourself.”
“Thanks.”
Hartman walked over to the, bureau. The bottle of brandy and two, water glasses stood on the white linen bureau cover, Hartman glanced toward the bathroom. The water was still running in the tub. He reached out — not toward the bottle but toward the top bureau drawer. He pulled the drawer open. He drew in his breath, sharply.
Lying on top of a stack of clean shirts were some photographs — theatrical photographs of Nancy Bradford. They’d been mutilated. Some of them were torn, some of them had been defaced with a heavy black crayon. Hartman picked them up. His hands shook so that the heavy photographic paper rattled in his fingers. Then he heard a faint squeaking noise. He dropped the pictures and swung around. His right hand dove into the pocket of his coat and came out holding the revolver.